The Ice Cream Man Cometh

In New York City and much of the northeast, residents like me are experiencing the winter that wasn’t and apparently won’t be. It’s been so mild and virtually snowless that the ice cream man, Mister Softee, is already making his appointed rounds. This is unheard of for this time of year, akin to the swallows of San Juan Capistrano returning on St. Lucy’s Day rather than St. Joseph’s Day. Rounds, by the way, that include the venerable Mister Softee jingle polluting the air. As a youth, I welcomed the ditty playing over and over and over on a repetitive loop—and why not? Now, however, it’s intrusive and maddening! With ample history on my side, I reasoned that I was safe in wintertime from this very grating sound of summer. To employ a favorite media tag: It is truly “historic.”

These are, in fact, times that try men’s souls on a whole host of fronts. For instance, the latest ignominy perpetuated on the written word: the bowdlerizing of children’s author Roald Dahl’s works. I never read any of his stuff as a boy, but the late author had and has a considerable following. Over three million copies of Dahl’s books have sold. His characters are peculiar and colorful: “fat,” “ugly,” and “crazy” for starters.

In Dahl’s original James and the Giant Peach, published in 1961, the Centipede character sings: “Aunt Sponge was terrifically fat…and tremendously flabby at that” and “Aunt Spiker was thin as a wire…and dry as a bone, only drier.” Here are the edits made sixty-two years later that the publisher, Puffin, says are “small and carefully considered”: “Aunt Sponge was a nasty old brute…and deserved to be squashed by the fruit” and “Aunt Spiker was much of the same…and deserves half of the blame.” That’s small and carefully considered!

In Dahl’s 1983 book “The Witches,” he writes at some point, “Even if she is working as a cashier in a supermarket or typing letters for a businessman…” This is changed in 2023 to “Even if she is working as a top scientist or running a business…” I believe young and old alike can ascertain how books from the past—some written eons ago—reflect their time and don’t require alterations to avoid offending someone somewhere in the here and now. By the way, what’s the issue with working as a cashier? Elite censors?

When I imagine who these censors are—predominantly young flunkies in publishing taking their marching orders from consultants—I cringe. This offended class—non-writers educated in the art of offense—willy nilly rewriting the books of a renowned and deceased author—with a large fan base that transcends generations—is at once out of line and nauseating. Sure, Dahl was a strange man and “not an angel” to quote Salman Rushdie, harsh critic of this farce. But Dahl—and Dahl alone—created the surreal world with the likes of Augustus Gloop, Matilda Wormwood,, and George Kranky inhabiting it. It’s not the job of present-day puerile blue-pencil pushers and wacky activists to obliterate it. Here’s an idea: Why not cultivate new writers instead? Folks who will envision characters who aren’t fat, ugly, and crazy, but non-binary, neurodiverse, and intersectional instead. The more the merrier! And while you’re at it: Fear not all that came before, it won’t bite you.  

I’ve dealt with many fine editors through the years. More than a few copyeditors, though. remained anonymous and I had no say at the changes made to my manuscript. I never got to pore over the final draft. Work-for-hire jobs. Favorite edit from Knack: Night Sky: I referred to the “near side of the Moon.” A mystery editor, who evidently didn’t know that there are—in the common parlance—a “near side” and “far side” of the Moon, changed “near side” to “near the side.” It’s not quite the same thing, is it?